11.18.02 [The Back Forty]
Two days ago I reached forty in age.
The milestone was not one I yearned to face.
But rather than unto the cosmos rage,
Or sorrow for the "loss" of youth embrace,
Or dwell on where a progress chart would place
Me vs. "average" re: how well I've fared
Achievement-wise, as if there were a race —
I neither rampaged, withered, nor compared.
I shoved all implications out and dared
To celebrate (when normally I feel
No need on birthdays). Daunted not I stared
It down, with friends, and a sangria meal.
But still, even the staunchest superhero
Heeds anniversaries that end in zero ...
I look back longingly at all my years
Before the specter of atrocity
(As if no heinous things preceded fears
Of soulless terrorists' ferocity),
And with nostalgic generosity
Forget the fact I've always found a way
Of being sure with grim velocity
The future would destroy without delay
My happiness — and so instead I say
"I'm doomed" and do my phantom fury's work
For it, although — who knows? — the future may
Bring gifts outnumbering the ills that lurk.
(My pessimism's roots and foul fruition
I leave to therapy via cognition.)
That hope is more effective than despair
I take on evidence I've lived and read.
But taking this to heart's exactly where
I struggle, having trained so long for dread.
And yet of me it truly can be said
That — through good fortune that has been combined
With decent navigation — though not bred
Well, I have thrived. To worry I'm inclined
Regardless, but a new path I've designed:
Exult in all the blessings I did earn
In making two score years; try to unwind;
Enjoy now. Maybe then I'll live to learn
How much old Bilbo's bashes in the Shire meant —
If I am able to afford retirement.
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